


Red Hands

by romanticalgirl



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: M/M, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-15
Updated: 2015-06-15
Packaged: 2018-04-04 13:04:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4138614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/romanticalgirl/pseuds/romanticalgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Let the punishment fit the crime</p>
            </blockquote>





	Red Hands

**Author's Note:**

> Day 2 - Kink fic

Ian’s pissed. Mickey _knows_ Ian is pissed. It’s hard not to, given that Ian being pissed means bitching and moaning and heavy sighs and kicking things and slamming cabinets and just being a pain in Mickey’s ass in general.

“Jesus, Gallagher, what the _fuck_ is your problem?”

Ian stares at him. “You’re seriously fucking asking me that?”

“Yeah, I seriously fucking am.”

Ian stalks from the kitchen into the living room, crowding Mickey against the back of the couch. “You’re reckless.”

“It was a fucking easy run. Dealt with these assholes before. Nothing to worry about.”

“You fucking went alone. You weren’t supposed to go alone, and you fucking know it. I don’t care how many fucking guns you have on you, when there’s more than one of them and only one of you, you’re fucked if they...”

Mickey cups his hand along Ian’s jaw. “They didn’t. I was fine. Look. All in one piece.” Mickey shoves Ian back enough to turn around, but before he can finish his circle, Ian’s hand is at the back of his neck, and he’s bending Mickey over the back of the couch. “What the fuck, Ian?” He means for it to come out angrily, but instead it’s fucking breathless. All of the Gallaghers are gone, which means he and Ian have the house to himself for the whole day now that Mickey’s back, which means Ian could fuck him like this.

“How’m I supposed to fuck you if you’re in the hospital or dead, huh?” Ian tightens the pressure on the back of Mickey’s neck and Mickey can’t actually stop the groan from falling from between his lips. “You stupid fuck.”

Ian’s fingers and thumb are pressing hard, and Mickey’s cock is hardening in response. He thrusts slightly against the couch, searching for pressure and friction. He tries to tell Ian off, he does. He fully intends to get pissed. He hates being called stupid – he’s too familiar with the word being thrown at him like a weapon – but from Ian he knows it’s something different. He knows it’s worry and fear and something deeper. “Fuck you.”

“Need to fucking teach you a lesson, you know that?” Ian leans over him, cock hard against Mickey’s ass through their jeans. His voice drips onto Mickey like honey. “Teach you what happens to boys who don’t listen.”

Mickey’s head falls forward despite Ian’s grip and his fingers dig into the back cushion of the couch. He’d told Ian about this one night, drunk and stoned and sated, because Ian wanted to talk about fantasies. Mickey’d said it without meaning to and Ian had frowned and asked all sorts of questions, fucking analyzing Mickey and the need for violence.

He’d tried to explain, but the words had been garbled and he’d eventually just pulled Ian in to fuck him again, the conversation forgotten. 

Or so he thought.

“Please.” Mickey pleads, and it’s hot and desperate to his own ears. “I’m sorry, Ian. I won’t do it again. I swear.”

Ian practically purrs. “I know you won’t. Going to make sure of it.”

Mickey bites his lip hard as Ian pulls away from him, his hand still pinning Mickey’s neck. He knows he has to release his teeth or he’s going to draw blood, but he knows what’s coming – he hopes he knows what’s coming – and the need, the anticipation is like a living fucking thing inside him that he needs to hold inside so it doesn’t become some sort of begging jumbled mess.

Ian doesn’t make a sound. The house is impossibly silent and then Ian’s hand slaps hard against Mickey’s ass. Mickey shudders all over and bites his lip harder, teeth digging in. 

“That what you deserve?”

Mickey nods frantically, wanting to feel Ian’s hand again. Needing it more than he thought he would, than he could. “Y-yeah. Yes.”

“You fucked up, didn’t you?” Ian’s voice replaces his dad’s in his head, lacing the words with something other than anger. Reclaiming them for Mickey. “You know you fucked up. You fucking scared me.”

Ian’s hand makes contact again, harder this time. Mickey chokes on a noise. “S-sorry.” 

“You’re sorry? You’re not sorry yet, Mick.”

Mickey chokes again at the way Ian says his name, at the scrape of Ian’s short nails from his neck to his waistband. Ian pressed hard against Mickey again, and Mickey can feel the bit of soreness at the grind. Ian’s hands snake around Mickey’s waist and he undoes Mickey’s jeans before pulling back and tugging them down. Mickey wants his boxers down, but he knows he can’t let go of the couch, knows begging Ian for his hand on his skin will just prolong it.

Mickey’s dad was fists and anger. Ian is flat strokes of his hand and a hint of tenderness for all of that. He puts his hand back on Mickey’s neck so that they’re in constant contact and Mickey presses against it, tugging his shoulders up so Ian is caught just as much as Mickey is.

“You want to be sorry, baby?”

Mickey’s glad he’s supported by the couch, because his knees go weak at the endearment, at the way Ian voice feathers over him. “Y-yes. Oh, god, Ian.”

Ian’s hand comes down on him three times in rapid succession, slamming into the thin fabric of Mickey’s boxers. Mickey moans, his hips jerking forward with the impact. He can feel tears in his eyes and closes them tight and lets them burn. 

“You think your ass is red, Mick? Know it’s hot. Can feel the heat against my hand.” Mickey shudders all over and Ian smacks him again. It takes everything Mickey has not to come right then, and it’s only the thought that Ian might _stop_ that keeps him from losing control. “Should I see?”

Mickey can’t answer, can only pant desperately, nod mindlessly. Ian’s hands curve over Mickey’s ass as he pushes his boxers down, making sure the front of the elastic waistband catches on Mickey’s cock and holds him there. Mickey whimpers and his head falls forward. 

“Not quite red. Pink. Fuck, Mick. Should see it. So pink and perfect. Almost perfect. Better with my cock in it. Better with me fucking you open. Gonna fuck you, Mick. When your ass is as red as my hair, gonna pound you into the couch until you know how much you fucked up.” He rubs Mickey’s ass some more and then he slaps Mickey’s ass again, one cheek and then the other. Mickey can hear the noises he’s making, but they’re purely involuntary, out of control.

His ass burns as much as his eyes, and the tip of his cock aches from where the fabric of his boxers is rubbing, wet with pre-come, against the head. Ian doesn’t stop. Slapping and smacking, whispering to Mickey about the red hand prints on his ass, about how he’s not going to be able to sit down for days, about how it’s going to be so hot in Ian’s hands, against his face as he licks Mickey open. 

Mickey’s tears are leaking down his cheeks, drying before they get far. He’s actively crying, cathartic and uncontrollable. Ian smacks him one last time and then rubs his ass, slow and soft, both hands cupping Mickey gently.

“Jesus, Mick.” It’s like a fucking prayer and Mickey sinks down to his knees when his legs actually do give out. His boxers are sticky and wet, and he came at some point, though he doesn’t remember it at all. Ian sinks down behind him, pressed against Mickey. His dick fits easily against Mickey’s crack as he wraps his arms around Mickey and pulls him back against his chest. “God, you were fucking gorgeous. So fucking...”

Mickey leans his head back and searches out Ian’s lips. It’s messy, the angle shitty, but it’s Ian’s mouth and tongue. Mickey can feel his ass burning against Ian’s skin and shudders wrack through him. Ian’s hand is rubbing Mickey’s chest as the other strokes up and down his side. “Not...” Mickey has to lick his lips and swallow several times before he can actually talk, before he can actually rasp out words. “Not sure I’m...”

“Let’s go to bed, huh? Rest.” 

One of the things Mickey loves about Ian, one of the things he’ll never understand or articulate, is how Ian knows him. It scares the shit out of him, but it also makes him feel safe, which doesn’t make any sense, but feels right all the same. Mickey nods but doesn’t move, and neither does Ian. Mickey licks his lips again and turns just enough to meet Ian’s eyes. “Thank you.” It’s a prayer of Mickey’s own, and he’s not sure if he’s thanking Ian or whatever led him here, to this place, to now, to this boy, this man.

Ian nods and presses a soft, simple kiss to Mickey’s lips. “Still gonna do all that other stuff.”

“You fucking better,” Mickey smiles tiredly.

“And if you ever go on a fucking run alone again, I’m going to kill you myself. Deal?”

Mickey closes his eyes, smiling still, leaning on Ian’s strength, resting against the bubble that seems to surround them in this moment. “Deal.”


End file.
